


Of Samuel Winchester's Hands and John Watson's Fantasies

by mresundance



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Fisting, Hand Fetish, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has a fetish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Samuel Winchester's Hands and John Watson's Fantasies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ro_mm_ck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ro_mm_ck/gifts).



> Written for [cee_m](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cee_m/profile), who is AMAZEBALLS x 1,000.
> 
> Also, I love Supernatural. I take the piss only because I love the show.
> 
> Unbeta'ed. All mistakes are mine.

Samuel Winchester turned and gave his brother Dean a heartfelt look. He pressed his hand against Dean's chest as he did, elegant, long fingers splaying.

On the couch watching the telly, John spasmed happily.

'Oh my god,' he moaned into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock could smell the Jameson, sharp and spicy, on John's breath. 'Oh my _god_ his hands are so incredible.'

John was edging nearer and nearer towards the 'incomprehensible' side of being pissed. The evening had commenced with John discovering that his Supernatural Season 5 DVDs had arrived from Amazon, pristinely wrapped and sitting on the doorstep. He'd actually whooped, like a little boy. Sherlock had tried to suppress his smile. Then John's face had gone hard and focused and he'd said: 'Right.'

They'd started watching soon after. Sherlock only half paid attention, browsing the Science of Deduction forums boredly from his laptop. Sherlock enjoyed it when that angel-bloke in the trench-coat showed up, bearing chapped lips that really required more lip balm than he seemed to have.

'If you're an agent of heaven, shouldn't you have an unlimited supply of lip balm?' Sherlock had quipped.

'He's a _renegade_ angel,' John had said. Sherlock had decided not to argue.

Eventually Sherlock fell to Googling. Smile curving his lips, he showed John the screen at one point. John agreed this was a very good idea and that, if they were going to do that, they should start all over from the beginning of the season. Sherlock had sighed but decided it was alright to indulge John, just this little. He had nearly been stabbed, shot and broken his neck -- twice -- in the last week because of Sherlock. He supposed he could endure an evening of telly with contrived plot points, tearful confessions of man-pain and a lot of people dying very gruesomely. He liked those bits especially. Even if the culprit turned out to be some kind of unhinged poltergeist or supernatural beast, rather than a lucid person who had done something very wrong in a moment of passion, or a madman with no compunctions.

At this point in the evening, they had already emptied two bottles of whisky. John had been more enthusiastic than Sherlock. He took swigs like a drowning man might gasp for air. Or as if this is the last time he will ever seen Dean smirk (and he smirked a lot, though it was very pretty), Sam pouted (and he had perfected it) or witness one of the brothers taken hostage (again), or hear Dean say 'bitch' (Sherlock doubted that Dean would ever cease being fond of that word). And not as if John wouldn't have five more seasons to muddle through until the writers figured out the story had fallen off a cliff and died in a horrible, broken heap ages ago.

The Impala door creaked and John and Sherlock drank.

John had been holding his liquor fairly well; he was a military man and experienced in such things. But in the past half hour his lucidly had declined rapidly, as well as his control. He ended up taking larger and larger swigs and laying all over Sherlock. Like he was some kind of throw pillow and not, well, Sherlock. He was not fond of all this touchy-feely business, especially not when added to all the touchy-feely business unfolding on their telly. It made him feel trapped in some kind of homoerotic hallucination, only the homoeroticism was quadrupled between him and Dean and Sam and John.

'His hands,' John moaned again. He put his head in Sherlock's lap. 'His hands,' voice warm against Sherlock's thighs, muffled and wobbly. 'Jared wossname's – Sam's – hands are so amazing. I could just have sex with them all day.'

'Really?' Sherlock was interested now. He watched the telly more closely. Sam did indeed, have fine hands. Long hands. Enormous hands. The kind that were deft and firm when they grabbed you and manipulated you.

'Oh my god yes,' John sounded positively orgasmic now, which Sherlock didn't mind at all. Especially speaking from the vicinity of Sherlock's lap. 'His hands are bloody gorgeous. I could suck on each one of his fingers all day long. I mean – look at that Sherlock! Look!'

John waved. On the telly, Sam's beautiful, elegant hands fanned as he pulled his own jacket closer. Sherlock had the sudden image of Dean on his knees in front of Sam, fellating his fingers one by one.

'Oh dear,' Sherlock murmured to no-one in particular. Because even if he wasn't really that all that sexual all that often, he had to admit the idea held some kind of allure.

'Fuck,' John said and drank for no reason. 'I wonder what his palms would feel like. Or what it would feel like to have those fingers. Running. Up and down . . . the spine. Fuckity fuck!'

Fuckity fuck indeed, Sherlock thought, steepling his own hands so that his fingers just brushed his lips.

'You know there is a – fan-made video of Sam's _hands_? I mean,' John made some noises. 'He doesn't even need a penis. The things he could do. With – hands,' John warbled.

Sherlock contemplated Sam's hands. Formed in a cone, fingers crowded together as tight as possible before they slid – slightly unevenly, but only in the way which made the friction delicious – in.

Sherlock smiled and tried to look as sinful as he could possibly manage. He hoped John, though drunk, would appreciate the effort nonetheless. Focusing his glass colored eyes on John, he said, 'You know. I have hands.'

John seemed confused. 'Yes?' He was still watching the telly.

'I have what could be deemed – very nice hands. Extremely suitable.'

'Yes . . .' John looked less confused and more piqued. Then, by some degrees, more sober and alert. 'So – you do. You so so do,' he said finally, turning and looking at Sherlock. His eyes were wide and he was smiling very stupidly and very happily.

Quietly, Sherlock asked: 'So what shall I do with them?'

**Author's Note:**

> Fannish things mentioned in the fic:
> 
> [The Supernatural Drinking Game](http://www.fanpop.com/spots/supernatural/articles/114/title/supernatural-drinking-game)
> 
> [Crave](http://community.livejournal.com/lightningmix/5712.html), vid by [proofpudding](http://proofpudding.livejournal.com/). YUM.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [On the Other Hand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070130) by [Kalypso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalypso/pseuds/Kalypso)




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